Canvassing the Limits of Domesticity
by Queen of the Castle
Summary: Rose/Ten II. When she was pressed tight against him later, drooling slightly on his bare chest in her sleep, the Doctor reflected that only Rose Tyler could possibly manage to say 'I want to have sex with you' by presenting him with socks, of all things.


Four years ago, he was telling Rose Tyler that he didn't do domestic. No way. Not under any circumstances. She could just take her problems outside the TARDIS, thank you, because there was no way _he_ was going to deal with them.

Boyfriend troubles, slap-happy mothers, police searching for a young woman who wasn't even really missing – honestly. What had he let himself in for?

It didn't occur to him for a second that she wasn't worth it. 

* * *

Three years ago, he was sitting at Jackie Tyler's table with a paper crown on his head, sharing a Christmas dinner. He was still recovering from his regeneration, he justified to himself, so he could write this little family moment off as an aberration. Besides, it was Christmas. Christmas was just... special. So it didn't really count.

Right? 

* * *

Two years ago, the Doctor latched onto a supernova to project his image across universes just to talk about family and jobs and what they were going to do with the rest of their lives. That wasn't really domestic either, he told himself, because 'domestic' implied something lasting. Something that'd had a chance to become commonplace, and maybe even a bit dull. His time with Rose would never have the chance to become that. Not anymore.

At that moment, for the first time in his life, he would have given _anything_ to be able to live a life like that... a life like that with _her_, at least.

He wished he'd been able to at least _tell_ her that. 

* * *

One year ago, when he'd found himself completely alone yet again, he went to visit her 'grave'. It was one among thousands of government-sponsored markers in London for those who had been converted into Cybermen. On the anniversary of the Battle of Canary Wharf, the site should have been packed with visitors paying their respects. However, the general remembrance ceremony was being held elsewhere, and the people whose deaths were marked here were only those with no body to bury, and no one left behind to give them a proper funeral. He might be the only person to visit all day.

Well, it wouldn't be the first time he'd been the only one around to mourn the countless dead.

So many people had been lost that day. She was just one of them. Even though Rose wasn't dead, or Cyberised (which was the same thing, when it came down to it) – and even though he had to believe that she was still out there somewhere in that other universe living an undoubtedly brilliant life – she might as well be dead to him. Either way, he was still never going to see her again.

He laid a single rose at the marker, trying to ignore how ridiculously clichéd and domestic that was. He was acting like some sentimental widower, even though he and Rose had never been like that.

He also tried to ignore the creeping thought that he really wasn't fooling anyone on that count, not even himself. 

* * *

One month ago, they'd finally found each other again, and he'd promised to spend the rest of his life with her, the way she'd once promised him forever.

It didn't get any more domestic than that. 

* * *

Today, he realised that he was completely wrong. _This_ was the height of domesticity.

Rose arrived home from work, pressing a brief kiss to his cheek in greeting (he'd never get tired of how casually she did that now), and thrust a packet of five pairs of colourful socks into his hands.

"Is it my birthday?" he asked, peering at the socks in confusion.

"I didn't think you had a birthday," Rose said.

No. He hadn't either. He wondered, then, whether she would _want_ him to celebrate a birthday. It was a human sort of thing to do, and now that they were living in non-relative time, they could actually keep track of the date. He didn't really have a clue when it would be, though. There was no way to convert the day he was removed from the Looms on Gallifrey into Earth time, even if he could have remembered that date after all this time. Until recently he might have said he was born the day he destroyed Gallifrey and ended the Time War (that had, after all, seemed like the moment that defined the remainder of his existence), but that didn't seem like a day to celebrate. An outside observer might have suggested that it was the day this part-human body of his was made, but that didn't seem right; he didn't feel like that had really made him a different man in the ways that mattered, after all.

Maybe it was the day he'd met Rose, he thought. That had been a kind of genesis, and it was certainly something he wouldn't mind celebrating annually. He wondered whether she'd find it sweet or just plain hilarious if he suggested that.

"These aren't a present," Rose said. "Well, not like that. Not really. These're for my self-preservation."

The Doctor looked down at the socks. "They're for you?" he asked sceptically. "But they're men's socks. See? It says so right here. Not that you wouldn't be able to pull off men's socks, if you wanted to."

Rose rolled her eyes good-naturedly "Nope, they're definitely yours. But they're still somewhat for my benefit, you know?"

"I don't get it." He didn't often say those words. He hoped she appreciated how brilliant she must be to be able to completely confuse him like that.

"It's like this," Rose said. "You're part-human now. And humans have all sorts of annoyin' problems that Time Lords don't. Like, say, sweatin'."

The Doctor made a face. "Ugh, I know, right? I have to use _deodorant_ now. How rubbish is that?"

"Aww, heartbreakin'," Rose said, deadpan. The Doctor poked his tongue at her. "Only, the thing is, it's not just those spots under your arms that sweat. Your feet do too."

The Doctor had, in fact, noticed that. It was incredibly annoying.

"That means you can't keep wearin' closed-in shoes without socks. So I bought you some. Easy solution."

The Doctor frowned. "Hang on. Are you saying..." He kicked off his right shoe and contorted himself (staggering slightly, as he hadn't thought to sit down first) so that he could sniff his foot. He made a face. "_Rose_," he whined. "Why didn't you _tell_ me my feet stink?"

Rose smiled. "I know you find it hard to believe, with your rude-and-not-ginger-ness, but there _is_ such a thing as tact. Only, if you're goin' to be sleepin' in the same bed as me, I can't just keep puttin' up with it. There are limits to my niceness."

"Sleeping in the same bed with you?" the Doctor repeated, dumbstruck.

"Well, yeah," Rose said, as if that wasn't an odd concept in the slightest. "Don't you want –"

"Oh, yes," the Doctor said hurriedly. "Yeah. I want."

When she was pressed tight against him later, drooling slightly on his bare chest in her sleep, the Doctor reflected that only Rose Tyler could possibly manage to say 'I want to have sex with you' by presenting him with socks, of all things. He thought that even four years ago, when he'd firmly eschewed any interest in all things domestic, he still would have found that completely adorable. 

* * *

One year later, the Doctor was nervously tugging at his bowtie. He wasn't used to the feel of it, since the only time he would usually wear one was when he was wearing his cursed tuxedo (which was still on board the TARDIS whole universes away, thank god; he really didn't need anything to go horribly wrong _today_).

He'd caved to Rose's request to wear a proper wedding suit, rather than his usual style, since Rose had thought that wearing something different would somehow make it seem more special. The Doctor didn't quite follow that logic, but it had seemed important to her, so he'd just gone with it.

"I'm not changing shoes, though," the Doctor had warned.

Rose had looked exasperated. "Seriously? When would I ever ask you to do that? Knowin' you, an alien attack will probably happen right in the middle of the ceremony. You'll _need_ a decent pair of running shoes."

When he'd arrived late to the church, wearing his plimsolls and a pair of colourful socks, Jackie looked like she was about to strangle him. Her potential murder plans were stopped in their tracks, however, when the Doctor explained that Rose had given those socks to him when they were just starting out as a couple. Instead, she ended up blubbering all over him about how her daughter had finally found someone who made her happy.

The Doctor was willing to accept that Jackie was going to be his mother-in-law for the sake of being with Rose for the rest of their lives. He didn't think, though, that that should mean he had to put up with Jackie _crying_ on him. He'd take her death threats instead, any day.

When the music started up and the Doctor turned around along with the rest of the people in the room to look up the aisle, his hands went slack and fell away from where they'd been fiddling with his tie. He was stunned that she could possibly look more beautiful than usual. How did she _do_ that?

He wasn't sure whether his still-partly-there Time Lord senses had slowed everything down to a crawl, or whether it really _did_ take her as long as it seemed to reach his side. Either way, he supposed it just gave him longer to admire the sight of her. It also gave her time to favour him with the cheeky grin that he loved so much, and to pull the front of her dress up just enough that she could show off the running shoes she was wearing underneath it.

If he wasn't already about to marry her in a minute or so, he'd propose right then and there.

As she reached him, he dragged her into a kiss. She laughed into his mouth at the unexpected move, running her hands up his arms and gripping his shoulders so that she could pull him more deeply into her.

The Doctor got the feeling that the celebrant had cleared his throat several times before he actually heard it and pulled away from Rose.

"That comes later," the celebrant chastised.

"Um, actually, I really don't mind," Rose said.

The Doctor grinned.

When the wedding ceremony ended (with a kiss that _wasn't_ rudely interrupted, thank you very much), the Doctor was pulled off towards a car to be taken to the reception.

"Really?" he asked. "There's more? But we're already married! Why do we have to go through _more_?"

Rose shrugged, "Yeah, well, I was actually sorta impressed that you agreed to the wedding itself."

"Of course there's gotta be a reception," Jackie insisted. "You two have to dance with each other. And I suppose you'll have to dance with me, Doctor, since I'm the closest thing to a mother you have. And there's cake, and gifts, and all sorts. It's all tradition."

The Doctor turned pleading eyes to Rose. There was no way he could possibly get through a dance with Jackie. He might have gone thoroughly domestic, but there was still a limit.

After all, Jackie Tyler would eat him alive.

Rose sighed. "Well, I guess we wore the shoes for a reason," she murmured to him quietly.

"Run?" the Doctor whispered.

Rose grabbed his hand. "Run," she agreed.

They took off, with Rose clutching the front of her dress in her hand so that she didn't trip over, and with Jackie shouting after them.

Rose laughed when they stopped for a breather. "Did you see her face?" she asked between giggles.

"I can't believe she was even surprised," the Doctor said.

"We can still have a honeymoon, though, yeah?" Rose asked. "Only, I really did sorta wanna go to Paris."

The Doctor squeezed Rose's hand. "Travelling with you? Wouldn't miss it for the universe."

Rose beamed at him. "Good. I really didn't wanna miss travellin' on the train in my wedding dress."

They take off running again, this time towards the nearest Underground station.

The Doctor decided that domestic life wasn't anywhere near as bad as he'd always feared. After all, he couldn't think of anything he'd rather be doing than running through the streets of London with Rose Tyler in their wedding clothes.

~FIN~


End file.
